No Time to Die_a thrilling CSI mystery Read online

  Yes, still, because they had been a couple of some sort before Jilly had died. But Ros had screwed that up and shoved it in the bin now. Even so, she was sure she could count on him with the situation at home. The Brian situation.

  If only she could bring herself to tell him about it. Of course she couldn’t, who was she trying to kid? She’d shat on Eddie from a massive height, and now she wanted him to put on his armour and come to her rescue. ‘Silly bitch!’ she said.

  The flies were having a ball in the hole in the side of the man’s head. His brains had congealed in the blood on the glass, had caused streaks down it, bits of hair stuck to the glass and bits of glass stuck in his hair and in his face. His right eye had vanished, no idea where it was, just a gaping hole that moved in the midday sun as flies hopped about inside it, looking to deposit their eggs.

  It seemed this was the better side to pull him out of. And there was no way she was going to tape him and generally mess about with him while he was still slumped across the seats like that. It was much better, much neater to get him out, get him inside a tent so no one could see and take all the necessary samples in the cool shade.

  And then she drifted back to what she’d said about Eddie being her protection. How presumptuous was that? Poor Eddie might not want to get involved with you, she thought. He might, and quite rightly, think you were using him as a shield against Brian. And whoa, what do you mean “if things get too hot at home”? What was last night exactly, a little warm? What is hot then? Is hot having a twelve-inch blade poking out of your back? Is that hot enough?

  No, I think having a knife held to your throat is quite hot enough.

  Yet there was something about Brian too; the way he seemed capable of manipulating her when she was at her weakest. Of course, he made her weak with his threats and his violence, but then he’d try to speak to her like a rational man having a debate about politics. He was mesmerising sometimes, and she felt compelled to take him at his word, compelled to blame herself. But wait a minute, she reasoned; didn’t you throw a bucket of cold water over him while he was asleep?

  I did, she conceded. But does that give him the justification to hold a fucking knife at my throat and speak to me as though he’s a psycho? Does it? I don’t think it does.

  Yet last night, she’d have said that it did give him the right, the justification – that he’d been goaded into it, and he was acting rationally. Something about him, the soft way he spoke to her, the words he used, he was like a hypnotist. Jesus.

  So, what do we do then?

  Move out? I don’t think so, it’s my house–

  But it’s not safe there.

  It’s safe! Just the man who also lives there is not safe.

  Better think of something, kiddo.

  ‘Need a hand?’

  Ros screamed and almost put her gloved hands to her face – but was glad she didn’t as her fingers were covered in blood.

  ‘Sorry,’ James said.

  Ros closed her eyes and took a moment to compose herself. ‘Yes, please. Tent.’

  — Three —

  Eddie sat in the lounge taking a closer look at James’s photographs. From a photographic point of view, they were quite good; nice use of bounce flash, a little over exposed in places, but good enough for court. From a scene examiner’s point of view, they were in the average bracket. There were standard quarter shots of each room, but there was no detail, no real close-up shots of, for example, the drag marks on the landing floor, the footwear mark on the bannister rail.

  Eddie lit a cigarette and threw the pictures to one side. If there was still anything left to be found, then he was going to have to begin from scratch. He didn’t wear a scene suit; he didn’t see the point because eighty-five percent of him believed there was nothing more to be gained from this scene, it had given up all its secrets already, and the other fifteen percent was just along for the ride. Okay, he reasoned, dropping ash on the floor and heeling it into the pile, there was still a slim chance that James had missed something in the original part of the exam – he was not perfect, after all.

  Actually, he lied. The fifteen percent along for the ride was only ten percent. The remaining five percent knew there was something else.

  Westmoreland wanted that something else – no, no, wait; it was Jeffery who wanted that something else, and the request had come from Cooper who worked for Crime Division. And that was understandable because Tony Lambert was Cooper’s man on the inside. He was the guy who collected evidence against the gangs. Eddie shook his head; he couldn’t imagine a more dangerous profession. He’d seen the gang’s handiwork and it wasn’t pretty.

  He exhaled and looked at the burnt down cigarette. ‘Where am I gonna put you?’ He went through the kitchen and found the ground floor toilet and dropped the butt into the water. Then he took the Maglite from his belt loop and looked at the toilet flush lever. He could clearly see glove marks on the shiny chrome but couldn’t tell if they were leather or nitrile. So, either the murderer used the toilet, or more likely James did, choosing the downstairs one because it was farthest away from the action. He shone the torch at the bare floor and could see no Adidas Wince, just lots of smudged “scene examiner” marks. ‘Tut tut, James,’ he said, and flushed the butt away.

  Eddie stopped in the kitchen, looked around; saw how many cups and glasses were out, checked the dishwasher, the sink, looking for things that just didn’t add up. The scenario he had in mind was of the two murderers knocking or ringing the bell, and Tony admitting them. And why would he let them in? He’d let them in because he knew them, and even if he thought his cover was blown because they’d shown up at his private home address, he wouldn’t risk it by refusing them entry.

  ‘Then what?’

  This was a tougher question. ‘How do you get from letting two men in, to them killing your wife and hanging you from the fucking ceiling?’

  They knew something. They had to, because they’d had the balls to even show up here. So they knew he was a copper. ‘Who told them?’

  If they knew who he was, why risk killing him here where his wife might have overheard and tried to ring the police? Why not wait until he went out where it would be safer for them?

  ‘They had to kill him quick. He had information about them.’

  He strode through the dining room and back into the lounge. It was swish; deep pile carpet, marble hearth, fake real-flame fire, huge flat-screen TV, plush sofas. ‘Very nice,’ he whispered. ‘And since he was a copper, and he’d managed to worm his way into their little gang, they wondered if there were any other coppers they should know about.’

  If that were true, why would they kill his missus? ‘Because he refused to tell them.’ Not for fucking long though, I bet, he thought. Once they started being serious, he’d have talked until his throat fell out. Which it very nearly did, he recalled.

  Nothing in the lounge.

  The stairs were carpeted, the bannister rail covered in aluminium powder. Nothing here either.

  So far, it looked as though the eighty-five percent part was spot on. But Eddie wouldn’t leave just yet. He walked straight past the landing where he had found the good Mr Lambert suspended by the neck, and into the bedroom. It was a murder scene, but it still felt like someone’s home. It was full of private stuff, get-well cards across the dressing table, scattered around silver photo frames of Tony and her, and of a dog they used to have, and of parents too. There were make-up bins, a special tray that held a pair of hair-straighteners. A stainless-steel bin on the floor, a pair of furry slippers under the comfy chair over in the corner. This was a happy room. Once.

  ‘He’s spilled the beans, he’s screaming for them to leave, but for some reason, they don’t. Because he’s a copper. They’re still here, and they’re serious about ending Mr and Mrs Lambert. Who gets it first?

  ‘Has to be her,’ he said to the empty room. ‘Even if she’s a heavy sleeper, she’s going to wake up when they slip the noose over his head and starts t
hrashing about. Unless he was unconscious. No, not unconscious. He’d be too heavy to move then.’

  He reasoned, It was the wife who got to the finishing line first. And maybe they used her death as a punishment or a carrot for more info.

  ‘In which case, he’d be here watching.’

  Eddie shook his head; he couldn’t think of anything worse than watching some bastard throttle your wife. It must have been awful.

  ‘And how much would you struggle?’ He’d be a handful for any one man to hold him steady. And how would you hold him steady, how would you control all that bucking and thrashing?

  That took some thinking about. He placed himself in different locations in the room, trying to work out where to watch the grizzly strangulation from, where would give the least obstructed of views. Given that the killer would be at the far side of the bed where she was found, anywhere over this side would be good, he concluded. Except the doorway, because of the bedside table lamps. No, he’d be further into the room, and he’d be cuffed at the back.

  ‘If it was me,’ he whispered, ‘I’d have him on his knees, and I’d control him by lifting his arms out behind him.’ And then he shook his head. No, that wouldn’t work; there’s nothing to stop him from standing, or from just falling forward so he wouldn’t have to look. And once he was on the floor, how you going to get him to stand so you can walk him out there and hang him?

  ‘Bear hug. Even though he’ll still thrash…’

  Eddie stopped talking to himself. He was standing in the centre of the room, maybe five feet from the bed, a perfect place from which to watch your wife being strangled to death. Eddie put himself in Tony’s position, hands behind his back, a horror show of incalculable terror playing out before his eyes, unable to prevent it. But he tries to prevent it.

  On the carpet directly between Eddie’s feet was a something that shouldn’t have been there. Tiny. Something easily missed.

  30

  — One —

  Tyler watched her drive away, and as he walked, his cold eyes fell on the end-terraced house he now knew belonged to Charlie. He walked quickly, pulling on his leather gloves and aiming initially for the front door. But it was too exposed, even with all the shrubs in the front garden to protect him from view. He changed course and made his way around the side of the house, convinced the stupid bitch was home, despite not answering the door to Michelle.

  She would be scared, no doubt, hiding in the cellar or in a cupboard somewhere, afraid to even venture outside the safety of her house. She’d be too scared to even answer the door. At that moment, Tyler hated Blake and was glad the dumb bastard was dead, but he couldn’t be seen to leave his murder unavenged; family honour and all that.

  He reached the back corner of the house and quickly peered around to make sure there were no neighbours watching, and then walked to the kitchen window, peered in and saw no movement, nothing of interest.

  She was in, he was sure.

  And there was another reason why she wouldn’t answer the door to Michelle, even if she’d known it was Michelle out here and not the brother of the man she killed. She wouldn’t answer for the same reason she hadn’t rung the police and for the same reason she hadn’t rung work. Embarrassment. Rape could do that to some people. It made them feel worthless; as though it was all their own fault, as though they’d subliminally invited the attack.

  Rape fucked people in more than one way.

  There was no way Michelle could relax now. How could she sit down and watch TV all evening, pigging out on Ferrero Rocher and a bottle of Sainsbury’s red, knowing that Charlie was… Was what?

  Michelle brought her car to a halt and turned it around. At the very least she ought to ring the police, get them to come and check it out. Something was not right! And then, after pulling over at the kerb near Charlie’s house, she thought about it again. Could you get into trouble for asking the police for help and then finding out Charlie stayed at a friend’s house last night and wasn’t even home?

  Get real. Charlie doesn’t have any friends.

  As she turned off the ignition, Michelle looked around and saw what looked very much like the man who’d given her these flowers, disappearing around the back of Charlie’s house, pulling on some black gloves.

  Tyler shook his head, disgusted at his brother. But now he was angry because he was having to clean up his fucking mess. He was going to drag a young woman out of her house so his father could kill her later, probably for a bit of sport as well as some kind of revenge – and he was a man not particularly well known for his good manners and sensitivity.

  Tyler looked at the back door. It was made of wood, and it was painted bright red. He aimed a foot at the cross beam and kicked.

  The door held, and he had to kick it another three times before it burst inwards. A cat appeared in the doorway, a black and white thing that looked up at him and meowed pathetically. Tyler stepped into the kitchen, and the cat rubbed up against his legs and then it squealed as it hit the opposite wall.

  Tyler ran through into the lounge, looked behind the settee, noticed a bunch of keys on the mantelpiece; house keys and car keys, they looked like. She was home then, for sure. And then he made for the stairs. He took them two at a time and was panting when he reached the first floor. And then he stood in her room, and he stared at the bed. ‘Fuck,’ he said. Within a stride or two, he was at the wardrobes, pulling the doors open, shoving hanging garments aside.

  In the bathroom, he yanked the shower curtain down, tapped the side panel on the bath with a foot and then began to grow really angry. On the floor was recently discarded underwear, red with blood, and a torn white thing, could have been a skirt. Tyler shook his head.

  ‘Where the fuck…’ and then he found the tight, curving staircase into the attic rooms. In under a minute, he was back in Charlie’s bedroom, shaking his head, wondering where the hell she could be. She had to be in the house. Her keys were in the lounge, doors locked from the inside, front door even had a chain on. So, where was she?

  There was only one place left to look.

  Tyler descended the stairs rather more quietly and walked into the kitchen. He looked around for the cellar door – all these old cottages had cellars, it’s where they kept the coal in the old days – and then he saw her, standing by the sink, an open drawer nearby.

  ‘If you come near me,’ she snarled, ‘I’ll stab you, I swear to God.’

  Tyler smiled. ‘Hey, Michelle, no need for all this; I was just looking for her–’

  ‘By kicking her door in and killing her cat!’

  ‘I just–’

  ‘The police are on their way. They had a unit nearby, they said.’ She stared at him.

  He could see the determination in her eyes, unblinking.

  Did he believe her?

  She didn’t look away from his stare. She was focused.

  Tyler licked his dry lips; he believed her. He had no choice but to try again later for the girl. He stepped out of the open door and disappeared around the side of the house.

  — Two —

  Eddie took out the magnifying glass from his kit box and knelt down over the mark. It certainly looked interesting, like a droplet of blood, but black.

  ‘Only one way to find out.’ First job was photography, as always. Then he broke the seal on a sterile swab, moistened its tip with sterile water and swabbed out as much as he could. Then he checked it was blood by using the Kastle-Meyer presumptive test, rubbing the swab against a piece of filter paper and then applying two drops of reagent. The filter paper immediately turned pink, so he was right on the money. To be doubly certain, he took out another kit, a Hexagon OBTI kit, to make sure the sample was human blood. This kit looked like a pregnancy test kit and gave a positive reaction when two blue lines appeared in a small viewing screen. ‘Bingo,’ he smiled.

  Eddie opened the front door and peered out. There was no one around. He breathed again and stepped outside the door and unlocked the van. He’d loaded in t
he camera and most of his kit, and then she reappeared from somewhere round the back of the van.

  ‘So, who told them?’

  Eddie jumped, put his hand over his chest. ‘Jesus!’

  Kelly smiled. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Sorry! I nearly shit my pants then.’

  She laughed and walked closer, trying to peer inside the house. ‘Well, who told them he was a copper?’

  ‘Look, Miss Moran, I have no idea what you’re talking about, and if–’

  ‘He was killed by bad men, Mr Collins. His wife too–’

  ‘How come you know so much?’

  ‘So, I’m right?’ She smiled again. ‘I don’t mean to put you on the back foot; I just watch a lot, I talk to people. Two bodies came out of there. And no one, except the person who put out the press release, thinks it’s a murder-suicide. So, the bad men got to him.’

  Eddie said nothing.

  ‘Besides, my sister used to work with him. It was a long time ago, ten or more years, she says. She used to be a copper; they joined at the same time.’

  ‘Ah. So, you’ve got a vested interest, then?’

  ‘She’s just recently arrived back in Yorkshire. Tony Lambert was a very good friend of hers. So, she made a few enquiries with her old colleagues.’ Now she wound her eyes wide open, made sure he was looking directly at her, as she said, ‘He was working undercover. Crime Division.’

  Eddie looked away quickly.

  ‘I just wondered who’d told them.’

  Eddie looked at her blank-faced. ‘Tell me, and we’ll both know,’ he said. Then he looked confused; why would he say something like that? It’s what school kids say. It’s what flustered school kids say! Was he flustered?

  ‘Here.’ She handed him a business card.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘but I’m trying to cut down. I don’t have a wallet large enough for any more shit.’

  ‘It has my personal number on the back.’